Witness of insanity
by ucouldbx
Summary: "She wanted to discover how a human brain could be so severely damaged that the hand of his owner would no longer tremble as he held a gun, directed at a child's forehead, that his gaze would not even budge from the eyes of his prey, as he pulled the trigger. " To put it simply: my idea of how and why Harleen Quinzel became a criminal psychologist... and maybe later Harley Quinn.


So... I dedicate this... whatever it is to my lovely waifu/hubby (whatever she insists on being) a.k.a. Vesusa. She is the sole reason this crap even exists.

* * *

Being a psychologist wasn't exactly Harleen Quinzel's biggest dream. The idea had just popped into her head one day just like all of the others – a result of her deep desire to mean something, to have a place in Gotham's community. It was a simply irrational thought and most people would agree that this occupation didn't really suit young inexperienced women such as herself. However, Harleen wasn't exactly the type of person who would listen to what others had to say. Or at least she liked to believe it to be so.

In reality, the young woman had always been as obedient as they come. She never really did have to make decisions for herself as she grew up – that was simply what her parents were for. They weren't exactly what you'd call the over-protective mommy and daddy that wanted their kid to follow their desires for her future at any cost and achieve their unfulfilled dreams. All they had ever wanted was to make sure that Harleen didn't get to make the same mistakes as they did. As a girl in elementary school she would sometimes find it annoying how they would always take everything regarding her life in their own hands. As time passed by however, she somehow got used to it. She didn't really care when her mother strictly told her where she ought to spend her high school years or mind it as her father would occupy all of her free time with books, tasks and never-ending lessons. She wasn't all that happy to actually participate in whatever her mommy and daddy wanted her to do. And she would not so rarely voice her disagreement. Every time her opinion got neglected, she would feel the grudge growing and growing deep within her. At the end of the day, she would still do what she was told is best for her and not because the feeling of dissatisfaction had faded away. Keeping all the anger and disappointment, all the feelings of being misunderstood and incapable of making her own decisions would make her entire being ignite, seeking revenge. But there was always something more. Something that was sweeter than revenge – the feeling of being a victim. It made her feel pure, powerful in its own twisted way.

As teenagers would start seeking individuality and independence as puberty and hormones kicked in, Harleen would engage in quite the opposite – stubbornly following all orders the people around her gave her. The more they wanted from her, the more it hurt to obey, the better she felt.

One fascinating thing about human creatures is that they often tend to not see, or rather not _want_ to see what's happening in front of their eyes. Everybody who knew Harleen Quinzel would describe her as a talented girl, who knew what she wanted, who was persistent and capable of achieving whatever she set her mind to. At times it seemed that even her parents didn't realize the chains they had put her in. Sometimes even Harleen herself would forget how dependent she was on her parents. She would even go as far as believe she actually was a free girl in a world full of endless possibilities. And yet, the day the door to this free world finally opened to her she didn't know what to do.

The day her mother got stabbed with a dull pocket knife in the street by a black hooded junkie was a day that Harleen couldn't easily forget. Or the funeral where her father cried like a little baby and cursed everyone who as far as tried to express their condolences. It turned out that Mr. Quinzel wasn't really shaped out for life as a lone parent. It was no secret that alcohol was one of his best friends when it came to coping with problems in work. He wasn't exactly what one would call an alcoholic and yet Harleen wasn't really keen on staying near him when he tried to drown his devils in whiskey. As expected, the death of his life didn't really turn things for the better. It was a devil that no kind of alcohol would efficiently drown. The hours he would be sober and not throwing threads at the air, imaging his wife's killer was in front of him, would become less and less as his daughters desire to be around him. But he hadn't forgotten about her to the least. If anything he became even stricter in making her follow his will for her future. "For her mother's sake" he would often say. Until the day he met his death, drunk as a mop, driving his car of a bridge in Gotham's suburbs.

After her mother's death, Harleen had been a mess. And when the news of her father's came too, she simply didn't know what to do. Despite all the times she had imagined being left an orphan and all the people, who would pity here, igniting that delicious feeling of being a victim in fate's hands, Harleen felt… strange. Lost. As if she didn't belong to anywhere, to anyone. As much as she had dreamt of this freedom, she was so set in her ways of listening and obeying her parents that now, when she finally had the chance to show the real Harleen to the world, she just didn't know who this Harleen was. The people around her didn't miss a chance to express their beliefs that she was strong enough to walk her way out unbroken from her family's disaster. And she hated them for that. All her life she had been a puppet in her parents' hands. That's what she did best, that was her true talent – carrying out other people's desires no matter if she approved them or not. And now, all alone with herself, with no guide, no parents to nag her how to do things right, she didn't know what to do, where to go, who to be. After all, how could a mere puppet pull its strings on its own?

People didn't understand her. They didn't even get a glimpse of her sorrow. All they saw was a young promising girl, who was going to overcome her tragic past and move on. They stupidly believed that all her mourning was for her parents but in reality it was for her whole existence, which was now devoid of meaning whatsoever. She hated the way people tended to always look for the good in the situation. How they would so naively believe that a fragile empty doll like her could manage to be strong in a situation like this. How they dared to elevate her, like she was some kind of warrior for being able to overcome her loss. How they would admire the strength they believed her parents' deaths had forge in her. "In every bad there's always something good." But Harleen couldn't swallow it all just because there was _something good_ about it. She simply refused to with all the might she had. She was no warrior, she didn't want praise, she wanted pity. She wanted to be a victim.

As time went on Harleen was getting more and more frustrated with her life. Making decisions on her own turned out to be more though than she had ever expected. She would question every single choice– from what she should study after she graduated to what flavor ramen noodles she should buy for dinner. The day she finally went to Gotham National Bank to see what her parents had left her for her tuition fee. During his last months her father had made a decision to send her to some college far more prestige than Gotham City could ever offer. His ambitions of course spanned around something of Harvard's or Stanford's caliber. It didn't matter if it was going to be medicine or engineering or journalism or whatever that she studied. She simply had to aim for the best. However, by that time psychology was something her father simply took out of the picture and Harleen had known better than to question why.

Speaking of Gotham National Bank, well, Harleen had never ever really been there until now. It was a big, big building, one of the largest banks in whole Gotham, situated near Wayne Tower. Getting a taxi on her own to get there and not have daddy drive her wherever he wanted was something new to her. Having parents like hers never really made her think that the day she would have to deal with "adult stuff" would come so fast and unexpected. She wasn't prepared, she felt nervous, on the verge of a panic attack and all of that only to call the taxi company. Only thinking about all the responsibilities she would have to take now, not having mommy and daddy help and guide her, was making her feel like a lost, abandoned puppy. It was hard to accept that this was the way things were going to be from now on.

What happened in the bank that day was something she could never forget not because it was her bound to be her first step in the life of adults, but because of the unexpected commotion a man with a gun made, making the most pathetic attempt at robbing one of the best secured banks in Gotham. It was clear as day that he had no idea what he was doing. At one point lying on the ground with a bunch of other people, Harleen asked herself if he even cared for the money or was simply here to put up a show for the newspapers. He was randomly pointing the gun at people, shooting a legs and hands as if he didn't even really cared if somebody died or not. The whole point of it all was the _fear_ on their faces. Their begging and whimpers.

Two little girls and their mother had been staying at one of the pay desk as the man had opened fire. The woman had been one of the first victims to get a fatal bullet in her abdominal area. She was bleeding severely while her daughters were shedding tears over her dying body. For the madman however all of these seemed simply amusing. With his gun still pointing at all directions he kneed near the two girls, sighing theatrically. The two girls were desperately holding to one another while he inspected the fear on their faces. Their dying mother started making incoherent noises from where she was bleeding on the cold tiles. She was pleading, begging for her daughters' life. Distracted by her whimpers he missed the distinct sound of approaching sirens. Once their howl became clear, as if they were just at the footsteps of the building, the man's face ignited with some kind of wildness, anger. Like they had spoiled his fun, like they had taken something that belonged to him. Before Harleen could register what was happening, the police officers were flooding the building... a second or two too late. The madman's body had just fallen on the ground with the muzzle of his gun pointing a big bleeding hole on his temple, where lied two fresh little corpses.

After all, the madman had fulfilled his desire – for the next couple of months his name was in the media almost 24/7. Police had stated that the man had never been associated with crime before – a completely normal man who one day stole a gun from a cop and went berserk in a bank. The motives of the cold-blooded killer of two kids and many more were discussed on a daily basis with new ideas being born every day. But none of the theories got close enough to the truth.

For days on Harleen didn't stopped thinking about him. She had seen something in his eyes, something so wild and animal-like. But with all the fear and nightmares after that day, something new had awoken in her – curiosity. She had seen something so new and different in the man's eyes, something she felt immensely attracted to.

Pure insanity.

And so time went on. Harleen had to choose a path in her life from now on. For the first time in forever she had an idea of her own. She had made a decision of her own. She had found something that she wanted to do for herself and not because she was told to do so. And if to this moment Harleen had wanted to fulfill her _deep desire to mean something, to have a place in Gotham's community_ , now she embraced the idea of being a psychologist with a whole new passion. A _criminal_ psychologist that is. She was more than fed up with the life her parents had once wanted for her. She wanted something more. She wanted to discover something beyond the mind of all the small people the self-righteous Batman would always save. Quite the opposite – she didn't want to observe just the broken minds of silly bound to earth people, whose dreams, worries and passions disgusted her. She didn't want to cure depression, but to be a witness of insanity. She wanted to observe minds, so terrifically and irreversibly screwed, who frightened normal people. Who made normal scream, run, beg for their lives. She wanted to discover how a human brain could be so severely damaged that the hand of his owner would no longer tremble as he held a gun, directed at a child's forehead, that his gaze would not even budge from the eyes of his prey, as he pulled the trigger.

She simply desired to study the causes and consequences of humanity's downfall.


End file.
